Adopting an Abandoned Farm | Page 5

air. It was a strange
place, a room from which many a colonial citizen had passed to take a
stroll upon the village street; and here, in sad confusion to be sure, the
dishes that graced his breakfast table. The Spectator could have
lingered there if alone for half a day, but not willingly for half an hour
in such a crowd. The crowd, however, closed every exit and he had to
submit. A possible chance to secure some odd bit was his only
consolation. Why the good old soul who last occupied the house, and
who was born in it fourscore years ago, should necessarily have had
only her grandmother's tableware, why every generation of this family
should have suffered no losses by breakage, was not asked. Every bit,
even to baking-powder prizes of green and greasy glass, antedated the
Revolution, and the wise and mighty of Smalltown knew no better. A
bit of egg shell sticking to a cracked teacup was stolen as a relic of
Washington's last breakfast in Smalltown.
* * * * *
"While willow-pattern china was passing into other hands the Spectator
made a discovery. A curious piece of polished, crooked mahogany was
seen lying between soup tureens and gravy boats. He picked it up
cautiously, fearing to attract attention, and, with one eye everywhere
else, scanned it closely. What a curious paper-knife! he thought, and
slyly tucked it back of a pile of plates. This must be kept track of; it
may prove a veritable prize. But all his care went for naught. A curious
old lady at his elbow had seen every action. 'What is it?' she asked, and
the wooden wonder was brought to light. 'It's an old-fashioned wooden

butter knife. I've seen 'em 'afore this. Don't you know in old times it
wasn't everybody as had silver, and mahogany knives for butter was put
on the table for big folks. We folks each used our own knife.' All this
was dribbled into the Spectator's willing ears, and have the relic he
would at any cost. Time and again he nervously turned it over to be
sure that it was on the table, and so excited another's curiosity. 'What is
it?' a second and still older lady asked. 'A colonial butter knife,' the
Spectator replied with an air of much antiquarian lore. 'A butter knife!
No such thing. My grandfather had one just like this, and it's a pruning
knife. He wouldn't use a steel knife because it poisoned the sap.' What
next? Paper knife, butter knife, and pruning knife! At all events every
new name added a dollar to its value, and the Spectator wondered what
the crowd would say, for now it was in the auctioneer's hands. He
looked at it with a puzzled expression and merely cried: 'What is bid
for this?' His ignorance was encouraging. It started at a dime and the
Spectator secured it for a quarter. For a moment he little wondered at
the fascination of public sales. The past was forgiven, for now luck had
turned and he gloried in the possession of a prize.
"To seek the outer world was a perilous undertaking for fear that the
triply-named knife might come to grief; but a snug harbor was reached
at last, and hugging the precious bit, the Spectator mysteriously
disappeared on reaching his home. No one must know of his success
until the mystery was cleaned, brightened, and restored to pristine
beauty. The Spectator rubbed the gummy surface with kerosene, and
then polished it with flannel. Then warm water and a tooth brush were
brought into play, and the oil all removed. Then a long dry polishing,
and the restoration was complete. Certainly no other Smalltowner had
such a wooden knife; and it was indeed beautiful. Black in a cross light,
red in direct light, and kaleidoscopic by gaslight. Ah, such a prize! The
family knew that something strange was transpiring, but what no one
had an inkling. They must wait patiently, and they did. The Spectator
proudly appeared, his prize in hand. 'See there!' he cried in triumph,
and they all looked eagerly; and when the Spectator's pride was soaring
at its highest, a younger daughter cried, 'Why, papa, it's the back of a
hair-brush!' And it was."

An auctioneer usually tries to be off-hand, waggish, and brisk--a cross
between a street peddler and a circus clown, with a hint of the forced
mirth of the after-dinner speaker. Occasionally the jokes are good and
the answers from the audience show the ready Yankee wit.
Once an exceedingly fat man, too obese to descend from his high
wagon, bought an immense dinner bell and he was hit unmercifully. A
rusty old fly-catcher elicited many remarks--as "no flies on that." I
bought several chests, half full